


Triquetra

by getoffmysheets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blatant Manipulation, But It's Okay Because The Watsons Understand, Crying, Daddy Kink, Fingering, Fluff, Fluffy Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Kink Negotiation, Mary is not evil, Mommy Kink, Multi, Nursing, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Post-His Last Vow, Praise Kink, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Snuggling, Sorry Not Sorry, There Is No Baby, Vaginal Sex, abusing John's jumpers, because I said so, gratuitous use of endearments, i should have tagging taken away from me, masturbation fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3158846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/getoffmysheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you attempting to suggest what I think you're suggesting?” John asked, cocking his head, an idea beginning to morph into his mind. He did agree on that, honestly. Though his verbal apology was pathetic, Sherlock had been nearly tripping over himself to make his absence up to John. And Mary was apparently giving him her permission to give him what they both wanted. </p><p>But there was one other person Sherlock was very eager to please as well. Granted, Sherlock's willingness to please Mary lacked the same fervency as his desire to please John, but there was a tenderness to it that didn't exist for anyone else. Which was not to say that Sherlock could not be tender – Mrs. Hudson was proof of that. But Sherlock wasn't desperately trying to make Mrs Hudson happy, either. Mary was extremely puzzled when a wide smile spread along John face, until he said “Do you want to be Mama?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: New fandoms! I love new fandoms. Oh gosh, let me see...I honestly confess, I have not the slightest idea where this came from. It's just...an idea that kept creeping up on me every time I watched the John/Sherlock/Mary interactions. I dreaded John being engaged to someone not Sherlock and then we met Mary and I was ecstatic, because no, John was not with Sherlock. But if he had to be with a woman, then this was exactly how it should be. Mary is manipulative and devious and capable of navigating the dark emotional places the boys dare not go and she does not attempt to replace the love either of them have for the other and it was weirdly beautiful to me. This strange brain-child is apparently what you get from that.

It started way before Mary brought it up.

He started to notice that some of the cardigans and jumpers that would be draped over his chair, or bundled on the bedroom floor, or stuffed in the dirty laundry hamper, would suddenly just...vanish. Oddly enough, they did not disappear entirely, but instead would make a later reappearance inside a basket of clean, neatly folded laundry whose origins he was uncertain of and could never get a straight answer from his manic-depressive flatmate.

Finally, having reached the end of his patience with this particular issue when he came home from the surgery – and a canceled date – and realized that not one but four of his jumpers were now missing, John searched the flat for Sherlock, determined to get an answer.

And oh, did he get his answer.

Sherlock was not in the sitting area or the kitchen, and the bathroom door was wide open. His bedroom, on the other hand, was closed but the door was not completely shut all the way. John walked slowly down the hallway and stood at the door and could not have possibly been more surprised if he tried.

Because Sherlock was curled up on the bed in a fetal position, wearing his burgundy jumper and...and was slowly wanking himself, moaning soft, words so low that he couldn't possibly hear him. John did not realize he was actively watching his best friend wank until Sherlock actually came, thick white stripes painting the knit fabric of the jump and the moans growing steadily louder, more desperate, until... “J-Jaaaawn.” And holy fucking hell, that should be illegal. His name was drawled out, needy and deep, from those luscious, made to be kissed lips. But then another gasp, higher, but no less needy, no sexual and sinfully arousing. “Daddy!”

John quickly and quietly backed away from the door, horrified and aroused and confused and what the fuck was he supposed to do with that sort of...? He was horrified at witnessing something so embarrassingly private and personal, terrified at his own intense physical reaction, and utterly confused as to what he was supposed to make of that...that...thing.

Because John could, with frightening and arousing realism, picture Sherlock kneeling at his feet, long arms wrapped around his leg, dark curly head resting on his thigh. Could hear that voice, low and wanting, pale eyes vulnerable and so, so sweet. Could feel that angular cheek nuzzling him. “I need you, Daddy. Please. Please.”

And it was making him so fucking hard.

But this was the kind of situation one had approach delicately. That Sherlock had done the laundry to cover this up spoke of how painfully aware he was that this sort of thing was usually considered “a bit not good”. He didn't want to scare Sherlock away from him or make him think he was being attacked or humiliated for what he wanted.

Unfortunately, before John was able to figure out how to broach this topic, Sherlock jumps from the bloody roof of the St Bart's pathology building and breaks his fucking face open on the pavement below (the dark curls become darker still...oh his beautiful curls are sopping wet with blood. Blood that drips from his hair and streaks across his face and spreads, gruesome and thick across the rain-damp streets like the most horrible watercolor he's ever seen...The neck, so long and white, is limp and frail in death).

The most terrible thing is wondering...wondering what would've happened if he'd only said the right words, spoke with his heart instead of allowing the overwhelming panic and fear to choke them off. Because his first instinct, the greatest secret of his life, was to tell Sherlock “Calm down, Sherlock. Tell Daddy what's wrong and we'll fix it. Just tell me what's wrong, baby.”

Sherlock's secrets – even the everyday ones – will die with John, he knows. Because there is no possible way that he is going to divulge something so shocking and so personal to people who crowed “freak” and “fraud” and “psychopath” while he was still alive.

And then John meets Mary.

Mary is funny and kind, and...if John is completely honest with himself, there is something about her that actually reminds him of Sherlock. Which is ridiculous because Sherlock was a tall gangly man with dark curly hair and pale blue eyes and Mary is short, curvaceous, female, and blonde. But...sometimes, there is something sly and clever in her smile that brings a little of the late detective back to life for him.

He admits as they grow closer, that he and Sherlock had a mutual attraction and affection for each other that was never acted upon and that they never spoke of aloud.

He does not tell her the manner in which he knew this or Sherlock's...unusual desires.

It would not be right, John thinks, to hand out of the secrets of a dead man, especially when that dead man was his dearest friend.

But then the enormous idiot shows up in a restaurant that John was going to propose in and simply will not shut his fucking mouth and three restaurants and one cab later, Mary turns to him and smiles, eyes gleaming a wicked amusement and her throaty voice utters three words that stop and start his heart in the same instant, three simple words that mean the world to him. “I like him.”

Not a single one of his female companions in the past ever made such a claim. Even Sarah, who'd had the most promise and was the closest to understanding John and Sherlock's strange symbiotic relationship, only tolerated Sherlock for his sake – and not particularly well, in most cases. But after nearly three hours in chaos with their whole night ruined, Mary simply said “I like him.”

And, over the course of the days, Mary does not stop her urging. “You miss him.”

“Go talk to him.”

“John, you need to talk to him – he's your best friend!”

It was this that slowly wore him down into telling her. “John, it's obvious that you're missing him and he's missed you, too. I know you don't like the choice he made, but it was clearly a very necessary choice. Don't go breaking both your hearts all over again just because you're proud and angry and stubborn, John Watson!”

Breaking both your hearts. Mary already knew, had always known. Sherlock was not just his friend – he was a piece of him. “I have to tell you something, Mary.”

Her green eyes stared back at him, large and steady with understanding. “Alright.”

Slowly, and in carefully given pieces, he told Mary everything. His missing cardigans, Sherlock moaning his name, the word that inspired his wank fantasies, and his thoughts on the roof top. He didn't mind telling her as much as he'd thought – she was his wife now and his loyalty was to her. But he had grieved his friend so much, believing that these secrets were his to die with, and now that he knew it wasn't true, John couldn't stand having this be a secret from the only other person he could ever say he'd truly been in love with.

When he was finished, Mary slowly walked around their kitchen. “Before he came back, I'd never read your blog. You know that. I knew how much it hurt you even to talk about him, and the blog was like...like an immortal shrine to him. I started the night he came back – you know that, too.” Here, Mary hesitated slightly, chewing her lower lip a moment. “John, did you...do you...hm...”

“Yes?” John asked gently.

Her eyes shifted to his face and then gazed away. “Did you know that you call him 'child'?”

John's brows furrowed. “What?”

“You called him 'child',” Mary said insistently. “Around the time you first met him, you compared him to a child and you said 'he's a strange child'. And when you described being forced into the pool by Moriarty, you said 'he looked like a little, lost child'. John...I-I think you knew. I think either part of you knew what he wanted, what he needed from you...or a part of you wanted it and never knew.”

“I think...it's both.” He looked at her with new understanding. “It was both, Mary.”

Mary's eyes flickered beneath her golden lashes. Before ever having this conversation, John had described his care for his friend – Sherlock needed to be reminded to sleep, coaxed into eating, and talked into drinking anything other than the uncountable cups of tea. She sighed. “Does he need you any less?”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

Her eyebrows raised. “Is his need for you any less dire? Honestly, John...I can almost taste his desire to please you whenever the pair of you are in the same room together.”

“Are you attempting to suggest what I think you're suggesting?” John asked, cocking his head, an idea beginning to morph into his mind. He did agree on that, honestly. Though his verbal apology was pathetic, Sherlock had been nearly tripping over himself to make his absence up to John. And Mary was apparently giving him her permission to give him what they both had wanted. But there was one other person Sherlock was very eager to please as well. Granted, Sherlock's willingness to please Mary lacked the same fervency as his desire to please John, but there was a tenderness to it that didn't exist for anyone else.

Which was not to say that Sherlock could not be tender – Mrs. Hudson was proof of that. But Sherlock wasn't desperately trying to make Mrs Hudson happy, either. Mary was extremely puzzled when a wide smile spread along John face, until he said “Do you want to be 'mama'?”

She looked surprised rather than puzzled now. Well, John considered, it was better than disgust or immediate denial. “I'm not saying no. But he's a very, very private person, John. Do you really think he'd want me to be...?”

“I think he wants someone to care for him,” John said candidly. “I think he wants attention and approval and I think the people he wants those things from the most are you and me. Sherlock doesn't take to anyone, but he took to you right off. To date, you are the only person that's ever happened with. He's never been a bastard to you, either, and he certainly doesn't do that when I'm around – even when he's trying to be nice, I can still see him choking back remarks when he's with me. I'll be the first to admit that I didn't try very hard when the thing with Sarah fell through, but Mary, I genuinely liked Sarah and she didn't seem to take his attitude personally...but he still only barely tolerated her.”

“He can be such a sweet thing,” Mary murmured, sitting back in her chair. Absentmindedly stroking the wood-grain of the table...but she was imagining a head of dark, soft curls. “He tries so hard and no one really sees it. You can tell that he wants to be liked, wants to be adored, but it's almost...”

“Like the world has pushed him away too many times?” John supplied, meeting his wife's eyes. God did he love this woman. She could almost read his mind at times. Almost like Sherlock did. Dropping his voice to a husky whisper, he added “You know he'll be your good boy, Mary. He wants to make us happy – hmm, and he has such an oral fixation, too. Cigarettes, sucking the rim of his tea cups, chewing his damn pens, chewing his own lips when he can't do that...and that beautiful mouth of his. Christ, I'll bet there's paradise waiting there. Yes, he'll be such a good boy.”

A visible shudder ran through Mary's body at this description. It was true that the shy flickers of those bright blue eyes and a rather innocent inability to grasp innuendo had inspired a certain tenderness in her feelings for Sherlock – he was such a little boy at times. But Sherlock was a man and it showed in the wickedness of his smiles and that low, lethal voice. And imagining her husband there with the two of them only fanned the flames. “Well...we need a plan then.”

John would easily be master of their little family, Mary had no doubts about that. Currently, Mary ran their social life and everyday home life, and Sherlock was unquestionably in charge of The Work. But with regards to the bedroom, John would rule. Given his...hm...preferences, Sherlock probably wouldn't mind that too much, but she'd bet he'd never guess how completely John would claim them.

She hadn't guessed it at first, either.

John was so gentle. So calm. So...humble. When they first started casually dating, she'd thought he was easily the nicest man she'd ever met, but...there wasn't anything there for the dangerous side of her. The side of her she tried so hard to lock away, but still lived and breathed in the depths of her mind, guiltily, like the fugitive she was. Still, there had been...something that drew her in and she couldn't seem to walk away from him.

She'd found that extra something the first time they'd slept together.

John had utterly dominated her.

Oh, there was nothing violent or even particularly forceful in the way he did it. John didn't need force to make his intentions perfectly clear.

It was just...so unexpected. They were kissing on her sofa one evening – not unusual – when something about it had changed. John had pressed into her, pushing her further into the cushions, consumed her with lips and tongue and teeth. She'd pulled away, gasped “John!”

“Come to bed, Mary.” The voice was calm and steady as ever, but low and intense. It hadn't been a question, either, she'd realized later. It was a command, a factual statement.

She'd followed him into her own bedroom in a daze, his hand wrapped around her wrist.

Thighs spread beneath him, Mary had seen that humble, gentle man become a proud, intense predator with storm-colored eyes and powerful hands and she'd melted for him. This was what she'd been waiting for. This what every other man was missing. She'd met cautious sweet men who'd ask but never take, and strutting aggressive alpha-males who'd tried to make her give them what she gave John freely.

And that, she realized, was what made John so different.

He did not abuse or ask or demand. He merely offered.

Offered a steady heart, a gentle undying devotion, unwavering loyalty, and a faithful, tender care unmatched by anyone.

The only thing he asked for in return was everything.

Personally, Mary thought she got the better end of the bargain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Wow, so was that chapter ending awkward or what? G needs to get her pacing down better, obviously. Sorry for the unpolished and unbeta'd chapters, but I do it so that you guys can see what happens faster and I try to make it at least clean enough to be readable. I'm excited so many of you seemed to enjoy this, given that I thought everyone would be all "Urgh, we have to deal with Mary? Awkward kink is awkward...this girl is nuts!"

John and Mary did not have any idea how they would broach this topic of conversation with Sherlock and the plan was rather taken out of their hands.

Because John got bored and broke - excuse me,  _sprained -_  a junkie's wrist looking for the neighbor's son in the middle of a crack house.

Because John realized as he was dragging Isaac Whitney out of the crack den that the young man staring, glassy-eyed, at the ceiling was someone he loved very much. 

Because for a genius, Sherlock Holmes was such an idiot.

Because they hadn't heard from Sherlock in a month and he was apparently back to cocaine and  _sleeping with Janine._ And God did that make the acid boil in his stomach...

Because Sherlock was a lying little shit and wow he really should be more upset that he lied to a woman about getting engaged, shouldn't he?

Because his darling boy was shot in the chest and his heart stopped beating on the operating table. 

Because his wife was also a lying little shit and she almost cost him one of two people dearest to him.

Because Sherlock talked him into it, almost pleading with him to let Mary stay, even when his pleading ended with him going grey and falling to the sitting room floor, gasping in pain.

Because it took him weeks get that image out of his mind long enough to be able to speak to Mary again and she agreed, tearing spilling down her face, to let him be angry as they hugged and she suddenly went weak in his arms.

Because Sherlock is an over-dramatic genius nutter and when he screws things up, he has to do it in the biggest way humanly possible, in technicolor stereo when he can manage it.

Because the two people Sherlock loved most were being threatened and John could have told Charles Augustus Magnussen that Sherlock reacts wildly and violently to emotional pain, particularly something as survival-driven and primal as fear.

Because there was a gun in the waistband of John's jeans.

Because he wasn't fast enough to stop Sherlock from taking it away from him.

Because Sherlock shot a man in the head at point-blank range to save Mary.

Because Mycroft was sending Sherlock on a shadowy mission and the government would not allow Sherlock to remain in the country and they were likely saying goodbye for the last time.

Because some arsehole put James Moriarty on blast on every telly in the country.

And Mary looked at him, steely-eyed and said "Now."

John licked his lips, feeling a little apprehensive and said "You know with this business with Moriarty he isn't going to want to discuss anything else."

Mary's face was firm and resolute but her voice was a touch hysterical as she repeated "Now, John." Fidgeting with agitation, she added "I understand that you'll have to do this without me, but you Need. To. Do. It.  _Now_."

John stares at her in silent bemusement for a moment before saying "Without you? Why would I do it without you?"

"John-" Tears glittered in her eyes, but Mary's jaw clenched tight and they never escape the rims of her eyes. "I shot him, John. You don't really think he still..."

"I absolutely do still think that he does, Mary," he replied firmly. More quietly, he said "He forgave you. He wouldn't have convinced me to listen if he hadn't. You've seen how could he can be to people he has no time for - what he did to Janine clearly illustrates that, I think. If Sherlock didn't care, do you really think he would have put in the effort? Especially when all he had to do to get rid of you was tell me it was you and leave it at that?"

"But you haven't forgiven me for it - not yet. I wouldn't expect him to."

"You didn't shoot me." Face twisting into a snarl, he amended "Oh, don't misunderstand me, Mary. I was plenty angry at you for that. You shot Sherlock -  _our Sherlock_ \- and left him for me to find, bleeding all over that office. He nearly  _died in surgery_ and he almost died again after escaping the hospital. But I wasn't the one who needed to forgive you for that. He was. I'm furious because you lied to me. To. Me. You know things about me, about Sherlock, about our lives that could ruin us and you've been lying to me since the day we met and you actively worked to make sure that I never knew. You risked Sherlock's life to protect that lie."

"I already told you," Mary said lowly. "If you knew...if you knew what I was, you wouldn't love me anymore."

John huffed out a laughed that carried no mirth. "Have you met Sherlock recently? No, I mean...really. I adore him, Mary, but I don't do it because I'm blind to his faults or unaware of what he is. He's self-centered and dramatic and demanding and intensely creepy sometimes. But he's also beautiful and brilliant and curious and I wouldn't ask him to change for anything." Bright blue eyes sharpened on her. "You're manipulative and devious and secretive, you know. But you're kind and generous and you helped bring back parts of me I thought were destined to die. When I say I love you, I mean that as an absolute."

"Fine." Mary releases the word on a long breath and sits down in the armchair as if all the wind has been knocked out of her. And then a moment later "Fine. But no more stalling on this, John. I mean it." She nibbled her bottom lip nervously "Do you remember what you thought about? What you wanted to say, when Sherlock was...on the roof? I...I had the same thing happen to me when we were on the tarmac, John. My-Mycroft looked...sad. And Mycroft never looks...well, anything. Smug, sometimes, or annoyed, especially when Sherlock is involved. But he looked sad, like he was already grieving for something."

"And I knew-I knew he would never come home alive. I wanted to turn to you then. 'Stop them, John. Don't let them take him away'." Mary's voice catches on a sob, but she pushes through the sentence. "'They're going to let him die. They're going to kill our baby'. But I was just like you, John. I couldn't get the words out. Not there. Not then. I don't want to wait anymore. I don't know how many days we have left together. Maybe three. Maybe thirty thousand. But I don't want to wait and spend time wondering what we could have had, if only we'd acted sooner. We've had a lot of second chances. I don't think we've got very many left."

John was silent, staring thoughtfully out the window and at the city lights of London all around them. "We still need a way of approaching him, though."

Mary smiled slowly. "I have a plan."

It was Mary.

It would have to be Mary.

John was an awful liar and they both knew it and Sherlock would know something was going on the moment he opened his mouth. Possibly even the moment he walked into the same room. Sherlock was good at reading body language and he was especially attuned to John's so that wasn't completely far-fetched. 

Mary, on the other hand, was exceptionally skilled at slipping beneath his ever-scanning radar - as evidenced by the fact that she'd spent months deceiving him. Something about her, John knew, just made Sherlock's sharp eyes and deductive mind slide over her.

Even when the plan went perfectly, she could tell there was something...off.

"Please, Sherlock," she whispered, knowing her eyes were already smoky with lust, letting her voice go husky. "Ever since...I feel like I've lost everything. John...he doesn't even want to look at me, now."

There was a flicker of unease, of distress that passed around the expressive corners of Sherlock's mouth, even as he hesitantly bent his head to brush his mouth over hers.  _Ah,_ Mary thought, filing that thought away for later. _Baby doesn't like it when Mama and Daddy are fighting._ _  
_

The kiss was soft, fleeting...aching and sweet and nervous. The kiss of a virgin.

It was how Mary knew that he was responding with real emotion. John had described Sherlock's interaction with Janine. He clearly knew the mechanics behind the act even if he was faking any of the corresponding emotions. But this kiss was clumsy and shy and that was how she knew it was genuine. 

She drew him closer, stroking his shoulder blades and feeling him shiver as her fingers eased into the rich curls at the base of his neck. Gently, she nipped those full, flushed lips and felt him shivering harder. She used her connection with his mouth to distract Sherlock from the fact that she was positioning him so that he'd be facing away from the bedroom door while they sprawled across the bed.

John was already in place and waiting for his cue, but he was tense and anxious and she was trying to make him relax before springing the trap. He was - he believed - kissing his best friend's wife behind his back and while, for some reason, he wasn't refusing her, Sherlock's unease was written in every line of his body. Well...and arousal. She had never seen even a hint at the idea that Sherlock had any interest in anything but the cerebral, but the evidence was now here before her. Beautiful cheekbones were flushed, irises thin slivers of silver-bright around massive pupils, and those trousers...well, the distinct ridge pressing up against the crotch of his trousers rather spoke for itself in her opinion. 

Mary made an executive decision. Sliding the first three buttons free from her blouse, she let the material gape open to reveal the white lace of the bra beneath...and since the cups of the garment were only a quarter of the usual height, Sherlock was left staring at the creamy full swells, tipped with firm pink nipples. His hands were halfway there to cupping her in his palms before Sherlock realized what he was doing and stopped midair, shaking. Gently, Mary's fingers circled his wrists and brought his hands forward, warm flesh meeting warm flesh. Their next exhales were strained. They stared at each other silently, breathing each other's air.

Sherlock's bright, swift eyes darted down to her chest and then back to her face.

He licked his lips. Eagerly. Hungrily. 

The only time she'd seen him look this focused was while he and John were on a case, and corpses wished they got this level of intensity from that lovely gaze.

She leaned back against the headboard, arching up into his calloused palms. Offering herself. His fingers were longer and more slender than John's, with a faint tremor running through them. 

Sherlock dipped his head, tongue flicking over heated skin, cat-like and seeking. Callouses dragged over white lace and sensitized flesh. A wet, hot mouth opened and he suckled, needy as a newborn. Oh yes. She could see the little boy buried beneath the coldness of the man, fingers curled against her breast and eyes nearly closed in bliss as he learned her with his fingertips, his nails, his lips, his tongue, his teeth. Mary groaned "Good boy."

Sherlock's pale, heavy-lidded stare flickered briefly upward at the praise and he gave a small answering groan in reply. 

And her husband stood over his shoulder, still and watching, before he spoke, voice rumbling low with desire. "I see you've decided to start without me."

She felt every moment of Sherlock's reaction, the realization spilling into him like ice water. Sherlock lifted his head, the rest of his body still frozen, and her stomach clenched with anxiety at the expression that she'd never seen there before.

Sick with terror.

More than fear, more than pain - a kind of horrified, mortal dread.  _"John."_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are ecstasy. Thank you for the fantastic support of this fic. Makes me feel better about the other weird ass ideas floating around my head, including but not limited to: John as the Dovahkiin (fuck the what?! no seriously, i kid you not), Papa!Lestrade, and weird ventures into memory and psychology. That said, this chapter is basically shameless, unapologetic porn with a generous side of fluff. Um...let me know if I need to add the Dirty Talk tag? I feel like this is really filthy but YMMV, I guess?

John's hands fell on Sherlock's shoulders and he felt the stony, tense muscles there. Mary seemed to be trying to communicate with only her eyes. _Make him understand_ _, John, before he has a meltdown!_ _  
_

He leaned down, mouth just above Sherlock's ear. "Did you enjoy getting Mama undressed?"

Woah. If John thought he was anxious before, he didn't know the definition of the word. Sherlock's entire body was quivering with tension. His voice as he spoke was a hoarse whisper, sounding both terrified and betrayed. John's heart squeezed. It reminded him of that night at the pool. "You knew?"

"For awhile, yeah," John said wryly. He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "And Daddy wants a kiss, baby."

Sherlock turned his head to meet John's gaze, eyes almost impossibly wide in his face. He looked younger and more vulnerable than John had ever seen him. His hands moved from Sherlock's shoulders to cup those lovely cheekbones, thumbs brushing over the smooth delicate skin. Sherlock's voice sounded unusually thin, tremulous and reedy with fear and hope. "Daddy?"

"Daddy's here, little darling," he murmured tenderly, slanting his lips over the younger man's. He had just a moment to watch the sharp ache of longing move over Sherlock's face before their lips met. Mary had let Sherlock explore and experiment, but John took control of this. It was deep and soft and slow and left Sherlock sliding his trembling hands up John's torso, making quiet pleading sounds as he clutched his jumper with both hands. When they had to break apart for air, John pressed their foreheads together, still cupping Sherlock's face in his hands. He indulged his desire to caress, and stroke, and pet - through his hair, over his face - and Sherlock's eyes closed with a little broken moan.

"Oh, you're a sweet thing," John whispered, body burning with love and desire. He leaned closer, nuzzling their cheeks together. Sherlock whimpered, the flush of arousal beginning to spread over his face again. "Mama told me you'd be so, so sweet. Such a good boy." 

John actually forced himself to have some restraint when the praise made Sherlock whimper again and squeeze his thighs together with need. It was difficult when all he wanted to do was devour him and he was so damn responsive to their every attention. But Mary had warned him that Sherlock was probably a virgin.  _No fast and furious,_ she'd said firmly.  _No rough and hard. Not for my baby's first time. Later, when he's comfortable and he feels secure, you can tie him up, or punish him like a naughty boy, John. But he's sweet and shy and we need to be gentle right now._

Mary always did have a way with words. 

"Tell Daddy what you want, sweet boy," John said quietly, letting his hand cup Sherlock's neck, thumb stroking the hollow of his throat. 

Sherlock drew in a shaky breath, voice still uncertain. "I want...um..."

John resisted the urge to raise a brow. Sherlock Holmes does not 'um'.

Mary sat up to reach out and rubbed circles over Sherlock's hipbones. "It's okay, baby." She kissed his hair, his cheek, his temples. Soft and sultry, she said "Mama and Daddy want to give you what you want, Sherlock. Whatever you want. Just tell us."

"I want-want Daddy to fuck me," he whispers, face flushing brighter. John suppresses a growl. That voice and that mouth, speaking those filthy words. God, that should be illegal. "And I want to-to...Mama..."

"You want to fuck Mama?" John asked, rough and gritty from the pulses of lust shocking his nerves. His hands passed over Mary's on his hips, briefly joining and lacing before possessively curving over the luscious swell of his arse.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock gasped, burying his face in John's neck in shame. "I'm sorry, Daddy!"

"Oh, baby, there's nothing to be sorry for," John murmured. Squeezing that gorgeously full, tight arse. Massaging. Teasing his fingers down the crack. Smiling when Sherlock's breath stuttered, stopping and starting. His pressed his lips to Sherlock's ear once more. "Mama screams when she cums, darling boy. You want to make her scream for you? Daddy can show you how."

Mary hummed her appreciation for this plan, nuzzling Sherlock's shoulder blade and stretching herself against his back like an affectionate cat. "You've been such good boy, waiting all this time. You deserve to cum. How do you want to cum, beautiful boy?" Her hands stroked over the taunt clenching muscles of his abdomen and Sherlock trembled. "In my mouth? Inside me, baby? All over Daddy's hands? Oh, I think I know..."

Sherlock whimpered and moaned and rutted against John's belly. He was utterly desperate - they knew what he wanted from them both but they hadn't expected for him to be so wanton and greedy for their attention. "Daddy-Daddy," Sherlock gasped weakly. "With Daddy's...cock...in me! Oh, god, please! I wanna cum with Daddy's cock inside!"

"Jesus, Sherlock," John swore, yanking Sherlock's belt off. He nipped and licked a path across his shoulders, popping the buttons on his shirt. "Daddy will give you everything, gorgeous, but if that's what you want, you need to be ready for me first. Lay down and let Mama hold you and I'll do all the work."

Sherlock allowed himself to be guided down, settling back between Mary's parted thighs, head resting on her breast and ear attuned to the dull thrum of a heartbeat. "Mama's got you," she whispered against his ear, fingers gently massaging his scalp. "Just relax, baby. Daddy will take good care of you."

John's fingers were light and quick as he worked over the fastenings on his trousers and this moment gave Sherlock time to stare in wonder at his best friend. The unassuming and seemingly innocuous ex-army doctor, who for their entire relationship had never ceased to reveal the complexities of his hidden personality quirks. Who had suddenly turned into a generous, commanding, smoky-eyed deity of carnal pleasures from out of his own wildest fantasies. Even his most intense yearnings couldn't have possibly produced something so...primal. So achingly tender and yet thigh-clenchingly filthy at the same time.

And John was letting him have Mary, too, he realized, nuzzling into one round, full swell and latching on to a flushed, peaked nipple. He'd been fascinated with Mary's breasts since the night they rode to Saint James to rescue John from the bonfire, until he'd realized that some of his usual fantasies of John bending him over had become burying himself into soft rounded curves and hazel-green eyes. The hand in hair tightened, cradling his head closer. "Yes, beautiful boy, oh yes," she gasped, caressing his face with shaky fingertips as she pressed herself against his suckling mouth. "Such a clever tongue..."

Fingernails gently scratched down his neck, settling his nerves alight, and the down his chest. Circling a nipple, and, just...a...little...pinch. "Mama!" He broke away with a low whine and bit his lip to hold back the other humiliating sounds waiting to escape from the back of his throat.

"No, no, baby," John chuckled, pulling his lower lip free with the tender brush of his thumb. "I want to hear all those filthy noises from your pretty mouth."

Sherlock moaned helplessly at the words, and a low laugh was his only warning before Mary's teeth nipped over the tip of his ear, the outer shell, his ear lobe. A warm, wet tongue slid into his ear and the sensation seemed to be directly linked to the nerves in his groin, because Sherlock's mind completely fell apart. His mouth dropped open and every thought in his brain came flooding out. "Mama, oh, Mama - please,  _please_!" he cried, vaguely aware that the flesh he was gripping in both hands was Mary's thighs, spread out on either side of his ribs. "I-I need...please, oh god!" 

Mary's sensual - and oh dear lord, unexpected - assault on his senses gradually ceased and she kissed his forehead before leaning back. "You're beautiful, baby," she praised, making Sherlock squirm and pant. "Mama loves to watch you let go." A wicked, wicked tongue traced all the sensitive places on his flushed neck. "You were begging, you know."

"Our little tease," John agreed in a low purr, dragging his palm down Sherlock's chest. "Begging and rolling your hips. Spread those pretty thighs for me, gorgeous." He'd never heard that growling, hungry tone before, but it made him want to beg more. As it was, he was helpless to disobey it. Hands at his waist pulled down Sherlock's pants and trousers, leaving him naked at last. In a snarl, John said "Oh fucking Christ, Sherlock."

Pale eyes looked up at him through thick, dark lashes, vulnerable and insecure. Sherlock's eyelids trembled, afraid of his anger, afraid of his disapproval, afraid of his rejection. John's hands ran over his waist and spread over his hips, rubbing down pale thighs lightly dusted with dark hair, possessive and sure. "Even your cock is pretty, Sherlock. You are beautiful, every bit of you. My gorgeous boy. My Sherlock."

Sherlock, if possible, flushed even darker and mewled, clutching at Mary's thighs and parting himself wider. He was trembling from head to toe and the slender, blood-darkened cock resting across his belly dripped with pre-cum. John couldn't help himself anymore - he needed a taste of this delicious creature. He sampled the sharp edges of collarbones, the tiny pebbled nipples. The curiously erotic dip of a belly-button, with suggestive motions. "You were right, Mary. He is a virgin." Sherlock's face turned away, pressing into Mary, his body language flavored with embarrassment. A kiss to the swells of each hipbone. To the skin of his belly right above the line of pubic hair. "Look at me, darling."

Still unable to disobey the growling throb of that voice, Sherlock turns back. The only thing that kept him from throwing his arm over his eyes were Mary's hands smoothing over his shoulders. 

Deep blue eyes pinned him in place, like a butterfly on a peg-board. "No one has touched you before me and your innocence is all over you..." Wet trails licked over his inner thigh. Sherlock was not breathing. Could not breath. Could not remember why he should be breathing. Laughter fanned cool air over the head of his cock, a soft throaty chuckle. "You taste like honey, sweet boy."

John's mouth closed over the head of his cock and Sherlock's cry was so anguished that Mary considered telling him to stop. Until he started sobbing into her stomach, guttural and quick, hips jerking. "F-fuck, fuck! Oh! Ohohohohohhhh! St-stop! Daddy, wait-I'm-I'm-FUCK!"

John's eyes met Mary's and they stared at each other, John's throat moving as he swallowed Sherlock down. Mary licked her lips. 

Sherlock, shuddering with aftershocks, watched in dazed amazement as Mary said "Don't swallow all of it, greedy," and leaned over him, pressing her lips to John's open and waiting mouth. They both hummed, kissing eagerly. Mary pulled away, still licking at John's lips, sighing "Oh, he does taste good."

He didn't know how long it took for him to catch his breath and come down, but John was kissing his face when he did. "I'm sorry, I know that's not what you asked me for, but you looked so fucking edible, I couldn't help myself. You still want Daddy inside you, love?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some unapologetic shmoop and yet even more utterly shameless porn.

Sherlock gazed back at him, eyes wide. The irises were such an intense shade of blue that they were nearly green, and staring at him in shock. John ran through his last sentence, but couldn't figure out what he'd said to produce that reaction. There was nothing in there that should have incited offense but this was Sherlock they were talking about. "Y-you-I-I...you called me..."

"Love?" Mary said aloud, craning her head to look into his face. Her brows drew together, their noses nearly touching as she leaned down. "Oh, but that's what you are, Sherlock. You didn't think we just wanted you to be our baby for tonight, did you?"

Sherlock's silence and his body language - which looked like he'd dearly love to escape the room at that moment - indicated that this was exactly what he'd thought.

The pressure in John's jeans eased as devotion overwhelmed his arousal. "Oh, no, no,  _no_ ," His palms cupped Sherlock's face where it rested in Mary's lap. "Why do you think we'd only want you tonight, baby?"

"I don't...feel things like other people. I know that I can't be...good. I can't be the way you want." His gaze darted between them, hopeful and pleading. "But I still wanted...to know what it was like."  _  
_

 _I wanted to know what it was like to be loved._  

The sentence was not given such a clear sentiment, but Mary and John knew it was there nevertheless. In Sherlock's mind, he had been temporarily allowing himself to indulge in the fantasy of believing that he was loved. He hadn't dared to hope that it was anything more than a self-delusion. He could see a suspicious glitter in the depths of Mary's eyes as she came to the same realization.

"Oh, little one," John said quietly, kissing the edge of his hair. "Sherlock, you are the surest, most confident person I know. Your senses tell you everything you need to know. Haven't they told you how we feel about you?"

His eyes glazed over and became paler, silver-blue as his mind whirred through the deduction. "John cares about me, I'm his best friend. He also evidently finds me sexually attractive. Mary likes me and finds me charming. I'm sure she also finds me attractive...apparently. I believe she's going along with this to fulfill some hidden kink of yours," He swallowed nervously, adam's apple shifting beneath the skin. "Humoring you because the fantasy is purely sexual. You chose me because you're a sentimental person and you would prefer having intercourse with a partner you care about."

"Wrong!" The Watsons chimed together, grinning at each other. The word made Sherlock scowl, but John could see the hurt, crestfallen expression lurking beneath it.

"Well, not wrong," John said gently. "But...it's like you said. You always miss something, Sherlock. I do prefer to sleep with people I care about. I care about you very much. You are my best friend. And I do find you...very, very sexually attractive. I'll admit I have a bit of kink, but my fantasy is only partially sexual...and it really only works with...you, Sherlock."

Mary smiled down at him. "I do find you very charming. And also very attractive. But I'm not just humoring John, darling boy." She stroked his hair, gently running her fingers through the curls. Her eyes twinkled with secrets and affection.

John leaned closed enough for Sherlock to feel the fine, coarse blond hairs brushing his forehead. "Question everything anyone ever tells you, doubt every word you ever hear, Sherlock. But don't ever wonder if we love you," Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed at the word and John's voice is fierce with his sincerity, the adoration vibrating through every syllable and the pitch feels like it resonates through Sherlock's very bones, making his sternum and ribs ache. "Because we do. As many times as we've almost lost you...Sherlock, every breath you take and every beat of your heart feels like a gift just for me, little love."

Sherlock's exhale is rough and hoarse, almost nasal, and the reason in clear when a line of clear, shining liquid escapes the corner of each eyelid. Eyes still closed, Sherlock shakes his head a little wildly. No one could love him, no one would ever want him. It's amazing enough that John and Mary tolerate him, never mind like him. "Don't shake your head at me," John said quietly, kissing him at each corner of the tears' origins. "It's real, sweet. It's real and it's not going away until we all die."

Mary's smaller, smoother fingers wipe at the tear-tracks over his cheeks. "Oh, don't cry, my baby," she whispered, feeling her own tears spring free. "I did such a terrible thing to you, but I hate to see you hurting this way. It killed me then and it kills me now. Shhhhhh, we love you, precious boy. It's okay." She took one of Sherlock's hands in each of hers - large, pale, graceful hands that twitched and trembled at her touch. "There's only one thing you have to do, Sherlock, and you can have everything you want."

"W-what would that be?" He is trying to regain control, trying to behave like an adult again, but he is frightened and vulnerable and the wobble in his voice gives him away.

"Give your heart away," Mary whispered, pressing his palms together between hers, a strange echo of his prayer-like thinking pose. She feels the thrill of fear travel up Sherlock's body and laces her fingers through his with a gentle squeeze. "I know how scary it is, baby. I was scared, too. I wasn't a virgin, but I'd never given myself to someone before. Not the real me. But John wants us, the real us. I...thought it would be hard. Painful. But it was so easy once..."

"Once?" Sherlock prompted, squeezing her hands hard. As if he is trying to hang on. As if she is a lifeline to a world that is slipping away from him.

Mary smiled up at John, with eyes dark and full of love. "Once you realize that John will take better care of your heart than you ever will."

Slowly, with shaky arms, Sherlock stretches out their joined hands, presenting himself to the man kneeling across his abdomen. His trepidation made it clear that he knew it was not just their hands he was offering.

John gazed down at them, naked adoration painted across every feature of his face. It made Sherlock want to scream with rage at himself and cry with joy for what he had found. Because it was just so fucking  _obvious. How did I miss this? How could I ever have missed this? The way he looks at me, it's the same way he looks at her. As if I have the world locked inside my body...and he's the only man who knows where to find the key._

John takes their fingers and separates the prayer clasp, taking one half of the Sherlock - Mary hand in each of his. Kisses each of their fingertips. Presses a kiss to each of Sherlock's palms. Seals his mouth over his wrist. Draws wet stripes over the pulsing blue veins, until Sherlock's foggy brain is made aware that he is tracing letters onto the skin. J. O. H. N.

Oh.

L. O. V. E. S. 

Ohhhhhh.

S. H. E. R. L. O. C. K.

"Ohh," Sherlock sighed, reflexively squeezing Mary's hand with every lick.

John's mouth moves to his other wrist, begins new letters.

S. H. E. R. L. O. C. K. 

I. S.

M. I. N. E.

"Yes," he cried. "Yes, please. I want to be yours."

"We were going to wait to have this discussion until morning," John said lowly, sitting up and glancing briefly up at Mary, who nodded back at him. "But clearly we need to have it right now. Firstly, we don't want you out of this house, out of this bed, or out of our arms unless you don't want to be here anymore. Secondly, we have rules. Rule number one is that we have a safeword."

"Actually we have three," Mary clarified, taking Sherlock's hand in hers again. "We don't expect you to call us "Mama" and "Daddy" in front of other people and you're entitled to be treated like an adult when you want be. But this space is what we'll call...the play zone. If one of us is giving a cue to enter the play zone, we say 'Steeplechase'. When you're ready to finish playing and want to return to reality, just say 'Brocade Curtains'."

"If you need stop because you feel uncertain or want to talk about what we're doing, or you don't like what's happening to you, you need to say 'Polar Sea'," John said softly. "Got it, Sherlock? Steeplechase, Brocade Curtains, Polar Sea. Rule Two is that in order to get rewards and access to the play zone, Sherlock will agree to try to maintain a certain amount of upkeep on sleep and calorie intake."

"I don't like to eat or sleep during a case!" Sherlock spat angrily. "It makes me sluggish and... _dull_."

"The amounts can be negotiated - up to a point - while you're on a case," Mary agreed calmly. "But when you aren't on a case, you will eat and sleep as much as possible, little love."

John's face was just as serious as it was a moment previous, knuckles brushing his damp cheeks. "I already told you. This isn't just about the sex. Being Mama and Daddy means that it's our job to take care of you, Sherlock. We want to make sure you get what you need, because I meant what I said when I told you I'd give you everything - but I wasn't just talking about the bedroom. Sleep and food is part of that, too." Small, sturdy hands caged his ribs in warmth and John's voice dropped to a whisper "I shouldn't feel these so well, and I don't want to, beautiful."

He felt John and Mary's hands joining against the ridges of his ribs. "Rule Three," Mary said. "While playing, Sherlock will obey directives given by John and Mary. Choosing not to obey will result in punishment. Which follows into Rule Four..."

"John and Mary will discipline Sherlock as they see fit. Sherlock will never be punished without knowing why and will always be given a chance to explain his behavior."

"Though," Mary added with a smirk "Don't expect to talk your way out of it. Maybe that works on Lestrade, maybe it even works on John. It definitely won't work on me."

"Rule Five is the last and most important rule," John concluded. "Sherlock is to tell John and Mary whenever he feels angry, sad, frightened, or ashamed. This space we create for you is meant to be about love and comfort and your distress has no place in it. Do you agree to these rules?"

Sherlock's lashes dipped as he considered the pair of them. Licked his lips. "I do," he said huskily. "Steeplechase."

"Do you still want Daddy to fuck you?" Mary asked, smoothing back his hair.

"I want to watch you," Sherlock said, a little shyly.

"I see. Our little voyeur," John said fondly. "Stay there and let Mama slide down then, baby."

John positioned the pair of them so that Mary lay back against the pillows, with Sherlock snuggled against her side, head resting on her shoulder. He chuckled as the dark head immediately began nuzzling and lightly licking at the smooth white flesh. Mary gave a soft, pleased sigh and tunneled her fingers through Sherlock's hair, guiding his mouth to her nipple. He latched on hungrily with all the instinctive eagerness of an actual infant, which made Mary groan and twitch her hips.

"Greedy, just like your Daddy," she whispered, curling her hand around the back of his head, cradling him against her body. Sherlock's own free hand curled underneath her chest, warm and innocent on her ribs. Her sighs turned into one long, whimpering moan as John slid inside her, thick and throbbing. "No f-foreplay, John?"

Steady hands stroked her open thighs, gripped her hips, firm but not rough. "I don't know about you, love, but I've had enough foreplay for the night," John grunted, rolling his hips in a cadence that never failed to make Mary's eyes roll back in her head. Neither of them were going to last long, but honestly, with the kind of visual he was getting, he didn't think he could if he tried. "Oh, aren't the pair of you just the prettiest picture?"

Mary, spread out for him, wet and willing, panting through her parted lips and keening with each thrust. Sherlock was cradled to her chest, suckling like a needy babe and watching him sleepily through those long dark lashes. They were languid, trusting, and the most utterly lovely thing John had ever seen. He couldn't resist pinching at Mary's unoccupied nipple and stroked at the small of Sherlock's back. 

Then Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, white teeth showing as they clamped over the pink budded peak and bit. Mary's moans choked off abruptly with a hoarse sob, and he pulled away and nuzzled her breast. "Daddy, fuck her harder," he said, lapping across the glowing, sweat-soaked skin at her collarbone and sternum. "Mama's going to cum. Mama's going to scream."

Illegal. Everything about Sherlock should be fucking illegal. And if any other person touched him, they'd be shot through the nuts. Curiously, he wasn't completely sure if that would be courtesy of himself...or Mary. "Good boy, that's my good boy," he growled, grabbing Mary around the hips to increase the force behind his thrusts. "Bite her, beautiful boy."

"Yes, baby, god...god..." Mary sobbed, and the words became an incoherent scream as John pulled her all the way onto him at the same time as Sherlock bit into her neck, just below her ear. John's low curse disappeared in the high cry. Mary writhed on the sheets, her back arching to an almost painful angle, hips still riding up into John's dick. 

Sherlock snuggled happily into her neck when the twitching ceased, long lean body stretched alongside hers. She laughed softly and nuzzled his hair. "My little limpet."

"You smell nice," he whispered, blushing and shy again, tucking his face into her shoulder.

 _Adorable. Fucking adorable._ He'd just cum, for god's sake, and already he wanted to pin Sherlock to the bed. He was in the perfect position to watch that positively criminal arse squirming on the bed. He wanted to squeeze it, lick it, slap it, kiss it, and bite it. He really, really wanted to fuck it.

Mary was already half asleep, insensate on the bed and cuddling their boy, who rested on her shoulder. 

And then John realized that Sherlock was not just squirming - he was thrusting his hips into the sheets, muscles in that beautiful arse clenching, making sounds of need so low they were barely audible. "Baby," he asked. "Do you need Daddy?"

Sherlock froze. "..."

"You know that Daddy hates it when you lie, Sherlock," John reminded him softly. "We're going to have a problem if I spend all my time wondering if you're lying to my face. I know you aren't used to asking for help when you need it, so we'll try again - do you need Daddy?"

Sherlock hesitated. "You don't have to-I don't need-I can wait," he stammered. "It will go away, Daddy."

"Who am I?" John demanded, using a bit of his army voice and letting it take over.

"...Daddy?"

"What does that mean?"

"You...take care of me," he said slowly.

"You're hard and you want to cum, Sherlock. Didn't I promise to give you everything you need?" Sherlock looked bewildered and was clearly not used to another person not only taking control away from him, but offering to provide comfort and love and pleasure for him. "Turn over, baby."

 After a small pause, Sherlock heeds the command and rolls onto his back. John silently looks forward to the day that this painful, insecure shyness turns into the younger man's usual charming impudence. The long slender cock was swollen and nearly purple. Under the scrutiny of his observation, it pulsed, weeping pre-cum down the shaft, and Sherlock whimpered. John fished lubricant out from the sheets somewhere near his ankle, where it had somehow migrated from Mary's hand. He slicked his first two fingers up and trailed them up his inner thigh.

"Please," Sherlock begged, hushed and urgent, legs parted as far as possible. He gave a small gasp as the cool slide of a finger circled around his tight opening.

"Just relax," John murmured, petting his abdomen soothingly. "Daddy's not going to make anything hurt. Relax and take deep breaths for me."

He teased the muscle, rubbing and circling and dipping in just the tiniest bit, until Sherlock was a writhing mess on the bed, trying to roll his hips to capture that finger. It was time.

With a slow, sweet slide, his forefinger went all the way in. Sherlock's head tipped back, flashing a long white throat as he arched into the pillow, and whispered "Yesyesyesyesyes."

John took his work seriously, stretching and teasing and thrusting, only adding the second finger when Sherlock sobbed "More!", sweat beading at his temples and damping the dark curls. 

"Oh-ahhhh," he hummed, feet planted against the mattress and pushing his hips down onto those strong, clever fingers. "It feels-" 

Whatever he was about to say was lost in a pathetic, whining cry as John smirked wickedly and curled his fingers on exactly the right spot. Never let it be said that Doctor John H. Watson could not find a prostate. "Does that feel good, baby?" he asked with a positively devious grin. Twisted his fingers on the next thrust. "Tell me, Sherlock."

"Oh god, _fuckmeDaddy_ ," Sherlock gasped, thrashing and pushing back with an increased urgency. 

"Not yet," John crooned, pressing, swirling, circling that little walnut of flesh within Sherlock's interior walls. Gently, slowly adding the third finger. "Daddy wants you  _melting_ before I take you, my gorgeous little tease."

If that was John's goal, he was certainly doing a very fine job. That was exactly how Sherlock felt.

Melting.

His muscles were warm and pliant, his blood smooth and hot, his bones stirred a liquid fire. He felt himself going boneless against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut, letting his hips roll and sway with John's movements, long easy strokes that left him breathless. "Ohhhhh." 

"Just like that, little love," John praised softly. "Oh, just like that. You are lovely. So lovely. I've wanted you for ages but nothing I'd imagined even compares to seeing you this way, Sherlock."

Sherlock's lips parted, a high, desperate cry of "Daddy!" escaping as John finally withdrew his fingers and wiped them clean on the already doomed sheet tangled around them. John generously coated himself with the lube and lifted one of Sherlock's legs over his undamaged shoulder. 

Perfect.

So. Fucking. Perfect. 

Tight, so tight and hot. For a man who always behaved and appeared so cold, inside his deepest core, Sherlock Holmes felt like a goddamned furnace. 

John went slow, knowing that he was larger than three fingers and quite a bit longer, too. His heart stopped when Sherlock's voice broke "Jo-ohnnn!"

"Are you okay? Are you okay?!" he asked, frantically, pausing his movements. Sherlock had addressed him by name, by his real first name, in that choked, croaking voice. What if he'd hurt him? Oh, Christ, what if he hadn't stretched him enough and he'd torn his poor boy somewhere? He'd never forgive himself - Jesus, he'd seen the kind of pain people who were injured while attempting anal sex could end up in. That was why Mary had insisted on being present even if Sherlock didn't want her to participate. A lot of things could happen when an inexperienced couple tried anal intercourse and as a doctor, John knew firsthand that most of it was very bad. 

"Oh, god, move, please move! J-John, _I'm so close_ ," Sherlock sobbed, fingers grabbing, twitching, scrambling for something to hold on to because he was falling apart and he desperately needed something to keep himself together. His breaths were hitched and panicked. He gave another sob of relief when John's hips started rocking again and a tiny hand slipped into his.

"You're okay, Sherlock, it's okay," Mary whispered, squeezing his hand. "Take some deep breaths for me, sweetheart, just keep breathing. Mama and Daddy have got you, baby, we've got you."

"I c-can't anymore," he whispered back, voice breaking all over again. " _Mama."_ _  
_

"Tell me what you need."

"I d-d-don't  _know_ ," he pleaded brokenly. John's breath suddenly rushed out with realization and a hand wrapped around the erection jutting out proudly from Sherlock's stomach. " _Unhhh."_

Hot sticky fluid spilled all over the flat smooth planes of Sherlock's chest and abdominal muscles, his spine arching and straining, eyes rolling back in his head with the force of his release. Every nerve and synapse in his brain lit up with the intensity of a nuclear power-plant. His whole body went rigid and he shook his Mary's arms, milking John's own release out with every spasm of his inner muscles. It was so earth-shaking, so powerful, that the moment it was over, Sherlock blacked out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna start out really angsty and awful. Just hang tight, I swear it gets better :)

Sherlock wakes twice.

The first time, his eyes opened to utter darkness, his arse felt tender and sore, he was covered in his own semen. And he was alone.

A dream. It was a dream.

Or possibly a hallucination, brought on by drugs.  _Oh god, why?_

This is not the first time he has ended up this way - he's had sexual fantasies about John and Mary before, of course, but they got more realistic and intense when he went back to cocaine. Since he could not actually remember taking the hit that caused this particular episode, he must have been mixing his chemical enhancers again, which had also happened before, back when his only friendship was with Lestrade, who had been more of a working acquaintance.

The first time, back when they went on their honeymoon, and it seemed like such a good idea for his cover, he'd hallucinated what he wanted to happen on the Stag Night. And it was amazing. Glorious. Wonderful.

But when he started coming down, John had begun speaking with Moriarty's voice. But he was still John. And he said terrible things. Awful things that made Sherlock feel dumb and small and weak and ugly. Until he was a crying, rambling, incoherent disaster lying in a heap on one of the beds in the coke den. 

That was how all of his drug delusions went. An incredible, intensely erotic fantasy, featuring John or Mary or sometimes both. And then when he started to come off the high, they would begin saying things that made his insides tremble and ache. Do things to him that made him cry and beg for acceptance, for forgiveness, for mercy, for comfort. For any sign that they could show that they possessed even a fraction of the love that he felt for them. No sign ever came, and he always awoke this way - alone in the darkness, covered in his own release, and aching with empty despair. 

This dream, this fantasy hadn't ended like the others.

But Sherlock wasn't sure he didn't prefer the insults and torture. 

Before, he could tell himself that it would never work. That, even if he somehow got the courage to explain that he wanted them - both of them, together - that they would never be happy. It would be awkward, confusing, painful...fraught with jealousy, anger, and resentment. And that wasn't even touching on the issue of what he knew was a socially unacceptable fetish. He hadn't meant to...he didn't originally start out wanting John to be his Daddy. But John fed him, took care of him, protected him - and one night, wanking with his hand over his mouth in the shower, the word had slipped out, hissed through gritted teeth as he came. And he'd  _hated_ all those women he brought home, taking John's attention, wasting John's time. But something about Mary had been different. She was...she was like John. Patient with his quirks, like John. Freely admiring his intelligence, like John. Delighted with his humor, with his humanity, like John. Mary was his Mama.

And before this dream, he would've been able to tell himself that all of these things made the idea of being together impossible. Because John and Mary were John and Mary, not John and Mary and Sherlock, and because why in the hell would they agree to fuck a bloody grown man who wanted to be treated like a child - no, not even that: treated like _their_ child?

After tonight, Sherlock knew he'd never make himself stomach that reasoning again. Not when he'd seen how they could be. They were gentle and beautiful and kind. They were...amazing. Wringing every last cry and scream from his body, supporting him and taking him whole, eyes shining with love, moving over and around him and through him as though Sherlock was already a part of them. Already theirs. Sweet boy, gorgeous boy, John had murmured. Clever boy, precious boy, Mary had murmured.

John was his protection.

Mary was his shelter.

And Sherlock, lying there alone in the dark, lost and aching, had never wished for death more than he did in that moment.

Tears silently leaked past the control of his tightly closed lids, flowing down to soak into the curls and his temples.

He'd thought their wedding day was the hardest thing he'd ever do. Giving away the man he loved to the woman he loved almost as much.

He couldn't be near them anymore, that was clear. With the Moriarty threat, he obviously couldn't leave the country, but he would need to avoid encountering Mr and Mrs Watson from now on. Every time he would look at them, he'd see them and imagine how it could be, imagine how they could be. Praying for their hands on his body again, craving for their love and attention. Pathetic.

 _Die. Die already._ He'd viciously thought at his transport, turning his face to the pillow to bite into the fabric, stifling the screams and sobs building inside his body. Sad, lonely, lost.  _Die. Die. You have nothing. Die. Just fucking die and this can all be over._  

Sherlock let out a startled squeak as the end of bed dipped and a familiar female voice broke the silence of the room. "Shhh, don't wake him, John." 

All noise in the room became muffled as Sherlock listened to the blood pounding through his ears. Distantly, he heard cloth swirling through water. Was the agony portion of the show going to start now? Oh god, if the pleasure was that good, that terrible, that earth-shakingly wonderful what the fuck would the pain be like?

"-d god knows he needs it," John agreed knowingly. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a warm, wet flannel wiping away the trails of cum covering his chest, before being pulled away. Broad, strong hands lifted his legs up beneath the knees, wiping the itch of dried semen that had spattered across his inner thighs and leaked from his well-fucked arse. Fingers gently brushed the sore, puffy hole. "He's got a bit of inflammation, but by morning, it shouldn't be anything but a little tenderness. You can use the numbing agent above the bathroom sink if he seems like he's suffering at all."

"Mmm," Mary murmured, yawning, and she rolled into Sherlock, her arm looping across his waist. He forced himself to stay relaxed, breathing regular, muscles pliant. He couldn't stop the unsteady racing of his heartbeat, but Mary didn't seem to notice. She was clearly already half-asleep. "Remind me to put cushions on all of the chairs before he gets out of bed."

Pretending got harder when John slid into the bed on his other side. Mary was all soft, slim curves, nails, and cool fingertips. John was broad, warm muscles and golden brown hair. He clasped Mary's hand across his hips, Sherlock sandwiched between the two of them.

He lets out the unsteady breath he didn't know he was holding when he feels soft, thin lips press against his shoulder. "Why were you crying again, beautiful?"

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, his back turned to John, but his hand tightly squeezing he and Mary's joined palms. He knows that John takes the hint because he desperately wants to be held. Sure enough, he feels the expanse of a muscled chest covering his back. Warm. Strong. Steady. "Had a nightmare," he replied, burying his face into the sweet smell of Mary's hair. It was true, had that actually been a delusion and not the foundations of reality. 

More kisses across his shoulder. John's hot exhale in his ear. "Go back to sleep, my baby. Daddy's got you."

And yes, that was true. So he did.

The second time Sherlock wakes up, the bed in front of him feels cold and empty and the smell of Mary's hair still lingers on the pillows he finds that he is clutching.

John was pressed against his back, arms wrapped around him, sleepy and safe. The hard throb of a morning erection was nestled lovingly against the small of his back and Sherlock is rubbing himself against it before he is consciously aware of the action. He recalled the awful feelings of desolation and loneliness from the night before, after waking up the first time, and suddenly, Sherlock was desperate from the reassurance that it was not a dream. His head fell back against John's shoulder, small moans breaking through his lips as he pushes his arse shamelessly against that large, pulsing prick. A drowsy, rumbling chuckle makes his cock twitch and the hair on his arms stand up on end. "And what do you think you're doing?" John murmured, gliding sure hands over his abdominal muscles, his pelvic muscles. A hot, heavy palm cupped his own waking erection. "Tell Daddy what you'd like."

"P-put it in," Sherlock pleaded breathlessly, blushing furiously. Shy again in daylight, curled up with John in his marital bed. "I want Daddy to-to put it inside again. Just - unh! - just like this."

A slow exhale. "God, you're such a naughty boy," he breathed, pinching Sherlock's nipples, making him writhe against his dick. "My naughty boy. Jesus, Sherlock if I'd known how gorgeous and dirty you were - the things I would've done to you. Probably for the best it took us this long to get here. Mrs Hudson would never forgive me for the things I'd make you scream." Sherlock is shaking with desire as John draws one of his legs back over John's hip. Two fingers gently push inside and he whines, pressing back onto the fingers that scissor and twist inside him. "Fuck, baby! You're still wide open, Sherlock. And wet, too. Shit, you still have my cum inside you."

"Fuck me, fuck me," Sherlock whispered urgently, rolling his hips, breath ragged.

"Slowly, sweetheart," John whispered back, kissing his neck and gripping the thigh draped over his hip. Pushed inside. "Daddy doesn't want to tear you and you're already sore." He nipped the tip of his ear. "I'll make it slow, love, and you'll cum so hard for me."

Sherlock groaned wordlessly, lifting his arms to twine his fingers through John's hair, their bodies moving together with such ease they might've been doing this very same thing every morning for years.

As always, John is as good as his word. The movements of his hips were fractional and slow, and they were both lazy and relaxed. The hand on his hip gripped him reflexively with each inward thrust and there was no real urgency anymore, no destination to this journey, because they both knew that together, they would eventually reach their destination.

And Mary stood in the doorway, smiling, and thinking to herself that they really ought to get a camera because this is beautiful and she would very much like to keep it.

Her boys were curled together on the bed, dim sunlight creeping in through the curtains, lighting the room golden just around the edges. John's hand was resting affectionately, possessively on Sherlock's hip as he leisurely rocked his own hips forward. Sherlock was completely plastered against John's chest, head resting in the crook of his shoulder, both hands buried in his hair. John whispered hoarse endearments, his lips against Sherlock's temple, and Sherlock gave a helpless, breathy little moan on every thrust. 

John likely heard her soft laughter, because his stormy eyes went to her silhouette. "Come here." Her obedience of the command was never under question, because when John gave orders, they were always carried out. So, of course, she obeyed, walking up to the mattress and climbing on. John's voice was dark and smoky, distant thunder in the echo of each syllable. "Lift your shirt, Mary."

Her hands rested on the hem of the baggy t-shirt, curled up in the fabric nervously. She knew she was already wet, she'd been watching her gorgeous boys lazily making love and John's voice and commands had made her belly quiver. She knew what they would see and she was't sure she was comfortable being quite so...revealed. Still, she lifted the hem. Sherlock's eyelids had been half-lidded and heavy with desire, suddenly went wide as his gaze devoured her. Dark blond-brown curls nestled between the vee of her thighs, which were wet with her juices. 

John took one of Sherlock's hands and curled their fingers until only their first digits were raised - and slid both into Mary. Crooked them until she moaned and clung weakly to the headboard. "That's it, baby, just like that," he purred in the younger man's ear. "When you finally put that pretty cock inside her, aim for this spot and Mama will be screaming in no time."

Mary whimpered when he withdrew their fingers again and then whined, thighs quivering as her body was breached again. Four fingers - two of John's and two of Sherlock's. And John was relentless, using their hands to fuck her at the same slow, steady pace he was thrusting inside Sherlock. It was unbearable, un-fucking-bearable, and it was building her orgasm around her like a tsunami, a giant wave that was grower higher and higher, but never coming any closer.

When he drew their hands away again, Mary gave a frustrated shriek, still clutching the headboard. "John, no, god, please!"

John leaned over and spoke into Sherlock's ear, only for his benefit. "When I tell you to, I want you to put four your fingers into Mama and fuck her at the same rate I fuck you."

Sherlock obeyed and the way Mary screamed "Sherlock!" when he pushed his fingers inside made his twitching cock leak rivulets of pre-cum, the young man moaning and thrashing over the sheets as John very successfully fucked the bloody brains out of him. Which was so erotic that Mary was inspired to keep speaking. "Ohhh yes, fuck me, sweet boy," she murmured, stroking along the strong line of his forearm, slick with her own arousal. "Don't stop! Oh! That's my brilliant, beautiful, clever boy. So clever, god, yes - you're so good, _my Sherlock_!"

The cries and praises had the expected effect: Sherlock bucked and howled, the red rigid cock laying across his clenching belly, pulsing out pearly white strands, cumming completely untouched.  His low-throated mewling and the sight of that was so awe-inspiring that Mary threw her head back and wailed as the fingers inside her twisted and jerked.

John cursed hoarsely as he watched his two partners come apart, unable to hold back the impending tightening in his bollocks. He left trails of love bites across Sherlock's shoulder blades, emptying himself inside the embrace of his little love's greedy, clutching body, cumming so hard that he saw white. "Unngh."

When his vision cleared, he found Sherlock's face was nuzzled into Mary's belly, with Mary propped up against the headboard for support and still panting for breath. "Breakfast is ready," she announced breathlessly, petting the dark curls that rested over her hip. "Or is was twenty minutes ago."

John lifted his head to watch Mary's hand moving over the cloud of auburn and brown and black hair. Sherlock was oblivious to the world at the moment. The combination of his lack in experience and the stunning force of his orgasm seemed to force his brain into a total system reset. "We'll eat it cold," John declared, grinning. "It was worth it."


End file.
